Wing Jones(4)

“Wing, baby girl, you’re family,” says Monica. “If anyone messes with you, they’re messing with me.” Her eyes soften, melting from the laser blue she was shooting at Heather to gentle blue, like laundry detergent.

I manage a smile. “Are y’all going out to celebrate?” I ask, changing the subject.

Monica shrugs. “There’s a party at Trey’s place, but I’m not in the mood,” she says lightly. I know there is more to it. Trey lives in a pretty dangerous part of town, even more so than where we live, and Monica doesn’t want to venture there at night, even with Marcus and Aaron by her side. “But I still wanna celebrate the win.”

Marcus and Aaron appear out of nowhere, emerging from the darkness and coming into sharp focus under the parking-lot lights. Marcus is shouting over his shoulder at another one of his teammates. “Nah, not tonight. I’ll make up for it next weekend!” He turns toward Aaron. “You go on, man. You don’t need to miss out because I’m not going.”

Aaron shakes his head. “Nah, Dionne will be there, and I’m not in the mood for her shit tonight.”

Dionne is Aaron’s ex-girlfriend. Even though they haven’t been together for over a year, Dionne still likes to start drama with Aaron. Especially when she’s been drinking. At least, that’s what Marcus says. I feel a sharp spike of jealousy mixed with relief. Jealous because Aaron is still so clearly tied up with Dionne. Relief because he doesn’t want to see her tonight.

Out of the corner of my eye I see someone else approaching. Someone I’ve seen around but don’t know well. Don’t want to know well. Someone who casts shadows everywhere he goes. He wears his Braves cap (with the big silver sticker circle still on it, just like all the rappers do) low, so low you can’t see his eyes. Just his sharp chin and soft mouth. His mouth doesn’t match the rest of him.

“What’s this? Our golden boys” – he steps on the word golden so that it comes out dull, not gold at all – “ain’t goin’ to the party? Ain’t gonna celebrate? But I got the goods for tonight myself. Just for my favorite cousin and his favorite little friend.”

No one else would call Marcus little. Monica takes a step closer to Marcus and I wish I had someone to take a step closer to. Jasper makes me nervous. Not just me. I can tell by the way Marcus has sewn his lips shut that Jasper makes him nervous too.

Only Aaron is relaxed. His posture is the same, his breathing even. You might wonder how I know what his breathing is like, but if you spent as much time as I did watching him, you’d be able to tell too.

Jasper is Aaron’s cousin twice removed and once hopped over, or something. Jasper has got no parents to speak of, but the ones he did have, once upon a time, if we are to believe that he was ever a child, were somehow related to Aaron’s daddy. He looks older than us by years and years. I think he’s only twenty-one or twenty-two, but the years are heavy on him, heavy with things that make Marcus watch him like he’s a snake.

“Jasper,” Aaron says, moving forward to clasp his somehow cousin in a boy hug. “Man, where you been? I didn’t know you were comin’ to the game tonight. It’s been a while.”

“You’re too busy for your old buddy Jasper these days,” Jasper says, spitting out the side of his mouth as he does. “One of your little teammates called me up, said they needed some stuff for a party tonight. I assumed you would be there.”

“Ah, sorry, man.” Aaron’s voice is taut as a tightrope wire: one wiggle and the walker will come crashing down. “I’m really not up for it tonight. But hey, good to see you. Been too long.”

Jasper shrugs. “Your loss, my man.”

“Next time,” says Aaron, grinning.

“Next time,” Jasper agrees as he slips away into the dark parking lot.

I feel rather than hear Monica exhale. She opens her mouth, but Marcus shakes his head at her, once, and she presses her lips together and rolls her shoulders back as if she just took off a backpack full of rocks.

“So,” says Aaron, voice bright as sunshine, “where are we going, then?”

“Where do you want to go?” Marcus asks. In the shadowy parking lot he looks so much like our daddy that I have to look away.

Sometimes I think about how our daddy will never get to see Marcus growing up into him. His lashes are curly like our daddy’s were, and his lips are the same shape too. He’s got our mom’s high cheekbones, though, and if you are really looking you can see how his eyes tilt up just a little bit at the corners.

I’m the opposite. I got my daddy’s dark skin and wild hair and my mom’s Chinese eyes and straight lashes. I don’t understand how a person can have such curly hair on their head and such straight eyelashes, but genetics are a mystery. And I definitely didn’t get my daddy’s or my mom’s high cheekbones and sharp jawlines. The kind models in magazines have. But almost all the models in magazines are white.

I’ve never, ever seen a model who looks anything like me. Not black, not Chinese, certainly not white. Marcus was approached last summer down at the mall by a modeling scout. She said he looked exotic and would photograph well. That didn’t sit too well with Marcus. He doesn’t like being called exotic or unique or different. All Marcus wants to be is the all-American golden boy.